“But, Joe, it ain’t _my_ fault,” cried the girl, earnestly, “by the blessed Cross it ain’t. I’se as feared on ’em as you could be! I screams if they come near me! I don’t know why they should, or why I sees ’em. It’s my misfortune, Joe, and if it loses me you, it’ll be my death as well.” And she began to sob afresh. “Now, Hannah, don’t do that, for mercy’s sake,” urged her lover, “for I must go. Your mother’ll be rare fashed at my staying be’ind, as it is. Now, do dry your eyes, like a good lass, for matters is too far gone to be mended by crying.” “You means to leave me then in right earnest?” said the girl. “You sides with mother and the rest, and will turn your back on me just because I’se un’appy?” “What can I do? my mother, she won’t ’ear on’t, and yourn is as bad. They’d worry my life out atween ’em, if I went agen ’em, and how should we live then? that’s the question. No! no! we’d better be square and part at onst. Besides, the old gennelman says ’_e_’s a going to look arter you, and you couldn’t do with two on us. So good-bye, Hannah, and I wishes you well, but you mustn’t expect to see me any more.” So saying, Joe Brushwood ran after Mrs. Stubbs, and was soon in the full enjoyment of a music hall programme. Hannah was not a fine lady to faint from her emotion, but may be she felt it all the same. When Mrs. Battleby returned to the kitchen, she found her standing by the table, with her most sullen look on, as if she dared a stranger to intermeddle with her grief. “Well!” cried the landlady, coarsely, “I ’opes you’re satisfied with the mischief as you’ve done! There’s the mother as bore you, ’alf drownded in grief, and as ’ansome a young feller as ever I clapped eyes on, done with you for ever--and all on account of your goings-on with the gentlemen upstairs. You’ve made a pretty pickle for yourself, it seems to me.” “Mrs. Battleby,” said the girl, suddenly, “can I speak to the Sig-nor afore I goes to my bed?” “In course, if you wants to! ’E and you leaves this ’ouse as soon as may be, but I’ve no call to part you, whilst you remains ’ere. The Sig-nor’s in ’is room. You can go up if you’ve a mind to. You’re not under my horders any longer. You belongs to ’im now. ’E is to pervide for you, so you needn’t arsk me nothink any more.” And Mrs. Battleby turned her back on Hannah and walked into the scullery. The girl went up the stairs and knocked softly at the Professor’s door. He was deeply absorbed in a treatise on his favourite study, but he gave his permission to enter, in a pleasant voice. “Well! my poor girl, and what may you want?” he inquired, as he caught sight of Hannah’s blotched and swollen visage, “I hope you have made it up with your mother and sweetheart. It is better to give in our own wishes a little than to quarrel, Hannah!”